


Like a Prayer

by Orangeblossom (edwardsmom)



Category: Angels & Demons (2009)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:57:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edwardsmom/pseuds/Orangeblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You mean there’s a passageway between your apartment and the camerlengo’s chambers — between Rome and Vatican City?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the camerlengo is a total freakazoid. However, right up until you saw the irrefutable proof on video, didn’t you think he was pretty normal, even heroic? Go on, admit it. So in my AU I’m running with the premise that he isn’t, in fact, a total freakazoid, and that when he’s faced with his crisis of faith it’s friendship that saves him. Also, I’ve never been to Rome and I’m a lapsed Catholic, so it’s a given that I’ve gotten a ton of details wrong. Just enjoy the story for what it is.

_Just like a prayer, your voice can take me there_  
_Just like a muse to me, you are a mystery_  
_Just like a dream, you are not what you seem_  
_Just like a prayer, no choice your voice can take me there_  
_—Madonna_

I’m standing at the window and I should be enjoying the beauty of Rome bathed in late afternoon sunlight — it’s one of the reasons I wanted the apartment, because it’s at the top of a hill and even on the ground floor I have an excellent view — but I’m not really seeing it at all. I’m busy crushing on a priest. Father Patrick McKenna to be exact. 

I first saw him a couple of weeks after I arrived here, when he was celebrating mass in Latin. I’d been going to mass at St. Peter’s — it seemed like the holiest place to go — and immediately I noticed that he didn’t drone when he chanted, that he spoke the ancient words as if he meant every single one of them. There was an intensity about him, a fervor that long ago had died to complacency in the older priests I’d seen before him. And so instead of my mind wandering and only catching the occasional phrases I knew, I found myself staring at him, trying to parse his words through his movements and facial expressions, and in the process I seared his image in my mind: the severe side part in his honey-brown hair, the cleft in his chin so chiseled it could break glass, the stern blue-green eyes the color of the 50-foot waves at Mavericks. 

Then later that week I went to confession and, unbeknownst to me, he was on the other side of the screen. I had figured out that most of the Vatican priests didn’t speak English well, if at all, and if I blithely nattered on about my sins in English instead of Italian, free-associating at high speed, the poor priests would simply absolve the crazy American and send her on her way. So I was admitting to my intense, irrational hatred for John Elway dating back to his days at Stanford when suddenly the voice I’d heard at mass earlier that week interrupted dryly, “Well, _that’s_ not good, my child.” 

That voice. It had rung with conviction in Latin but hadn’t given a hint of the Irish accent I now heard quite clearly when he spoke English. And I’m a sucker for an Irish accent. So even though he was rightly taking me to task, the combination of the accent with his glacial good looks turned me into a puddle of goo right there in the confessional. And I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind since. 

It’s not love. I’m not fooling myself. I know what I’m feeling is intemperate lust and that I don’t even know Father Patrick McKenna, I’ve only created this idea of him in my mind. He probably smokes cigars. Is a diehard Lakers fan. Hates baseball.

And — that’s it. I’ve indulged my imagination enough for one day. 

Determined to put him out of my mind, I start wrestling furniture around. The apartment came fully furnished (another reason I took it), but now I wonder if it would feel more spacious if the sofa goes from the middle of the room to the side, its back against the wall facing the window. 

I try out the vantage point from the sofa’s new location. I’m not sure about it, but I can always move things back later, I reason as I move the end table and coffee table, then roll up the area rug now exposed by the furniture I moved.

There’s a trapdoor in the floor.

My landlady had said nothing about a basement or storage room beneath my apartment, and I’m intrigued. I hoist the heavy door on the second try and see stairs leading down to somewhere lost in darkness. I pull out my keychain flashlight, a plastic gecko with a bulb in its mouth, and I see that beneath isn’t another room, it’s a passageway. 

The stairs are dusty and as I walk down them I wonder when the last time was someone used them. As I hurry along the narrow passageway, eager to find out what’s at the other end, I notice there are no other passageways branching off, just a slight incline downwards and the occasional corner, and no lamps or other lights.

The incline gradually reverses and I start climbing, and then I find myself at the bottom of another set of stairs leading to a trapdoor. I walk up the stairs almost to the top, take a deep breath, then put the gecko in my pocket, plunging me into darkness, and push up against the door.

It doesn’t budge, and I realize it might have a rug over it, too and I push harder. It lifts slightly, and I go up another stair, bending to put more shoulder into it and it lifts again, a little higher. As I push against the door with my back as well, it suddenly occurs to me to wonder what’s on the other side. Or, more to the point, who. 

I could be muscling my way into a terrorist cell where they’re toting up grenades and assault rifles, or a satanic cabal in the middle of a blood sacrifice, or the bedroom of some poor pensioner who I’m giving a heart attack from fright…

Just as I’m about to turn around and go back the trapdoor suddenly is light in my hands and slams open. I look up — and into a pair of startled blue-green eyes.

“F-father Patrick?”

His alarmed expression relaxes. “Thank goodness. I thought I might have to have this room exorcised.”

“I — ” But what can I say? Anyway, he’s reaching his hand down to me and helping me up, playing the gracious if bemused host as he offers me a cup of tea, and I’m too disoriented to refuse.

I’m in Father Patrick’s study, it looks like, as I take a moment to look around as he goes to put the water on. An oriental carpet had covered the trapdoor, crumpled now in a heap against the wall. Bookshelves line another wall, and the books look old and important, with hard covers and unadorned spines. This is a serious library for a serious man.

He comes back with a wooden desk chair, placing it near an upholstered wingback and gesturing for me to take the comfy chair. I hesitate out of politeness, nervously pushing my hair back from my face — and feel cobwebs there. I’m getting dirt all over a priest’s apartment. 

He’s about to sit down on the desk chair when I slide onto it ahead of him as if we’re playing musical chairs and it’s the last seat. Luckily he moves deliberately in his long black priest’s robe or he would have wound up sprawled in my lap, and I promise God if I can get through this interview without embarrassing myself any further I will do something incredibly pious and repentant as soon as I can think what exactly that would be.

He settles into the wingback chair and considers me. “You seem to know who I am.”

“Yes. I’ve been to mass when — ” I start to explain, and then realize he was asking me to introduce myself. “Oh! I’m Miri. Miri Stannis.” He frowns slightly, as if he’s heard my name before but doesn’t remember where. I supply helpfully, “My parents are big ‘Star Trek’ fans, they named me after one of the characters on the show.” 

He merely nods at the information. “You know, Miri, most people come to the door of my chambers when they wish to see me.”

My words tumble out in an effort to assure him. “And I would have, Father, if I’d actually wanted to see you, but — I mean, of course I would _want_ to see you, but I didn’t _mean_ to see you, now, like this. I mean, I didn’t know — ” A random thought occurs to me and I blurt out, “Am I in Vatican City?”

“Yes, you are. And you came from…?” he encourages.

“Rome! My apartment in Rome!”

He looks puzzled and fascinated. “You mean there’s a passageway between your apartment and my chambers — between Rome and Vatican City?”

“Yes!” My shoulders slump as I try to figure out the implications of that, and can’t. All I can manage is, “Isn’t that weird?”

“Indeed.” The electric kettle starts to whistle and he holds up a finger. “Hold that thought.”

I not only hold the thought, I hold my position, afraid to move and spread more dust than I absolutely have to. When Father Patrick comes back with a matching tea set on a tray and some shortbread cookies I finally straighten and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, and as he sets the tray down I have a sudden picture of him sitting in the wingback chair, studying the Bible and casually snacking. I don’t know whether to laugh at myself or not. 

He pours for us both, and I try not to notice the look he gives me when I refuse cream and sugar, as if I’m not quite civilized. I wouldn’t say I disagree with him. He takes a sip, and then regards me intently. “Where are you living in Rome, then, Miri?”

I tell him the street, and describe the neighborhood. “Maybe in the past this was the kitchen and the Vatican needed access to the markets, the commercial district, for supplies?” 

He shakes his head. “These have always been the chambers for the camerlengo.”

“The camerlengo?”

“The chamberlain for His Holiness.”

I nod, although I’m no more enlightened by his explanation. Looks like I’ll need to spend some time at the wireless café with the baristas who “hey baby” every woman who walks through the door. (I do my best to think of them as insouciant and not sexist swine, but it’s been difficult.)

I try out another idea on him. “Maybe...this was a stop on Italy’s version of the underground railroad?” 

“Because of its infamous African slave trade?”

Okay, that was stupid. “Or during the war, the Vatican was smuggling prisoners of conscience...around.” He gives me a look and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am — that my hypothetical prisoners would either have to make their way from Rome to the Vatican, only to be smuggled out to Rome again, or vice versa. Pretty futile. So I say in self-defense, “This might not be the only secret passage to your chambers, Father Patrick. There could be several.”

“A whole network of them, going all the way to the coast.” He nods sagely, and I know he’s making fun of me. I can feel myself starting to sulk — _he_ hasn’t had any brilliant ideas, has he? — and I reach for a cookie to calm me down. 

I can tell just by looking at them they’re store-bought. He deserves some homemade shortbread, I find myself thinking. And if I’m going to make some for him I might as well make some for his boss — 

Whoa. Time out. Making cookies for the pope? Really? What is wrong with me? 

I stand up abruptly, thankful for the small favor of not upsetting my teacup. Or his. “I don’t mean to take up your time, Father Patrick, I interrupted you and you were probably — ”

But he’s asking, “Would you mind if I followed you back, to see where the passage leads?”

“Of course not!” Relieved to be moving, I’m down the steps quick as a shot, clicking on the gecko to light our way. 

There’s only room for us to walk single file and I turn to lead the way when he asks, “Who is Johnson, then?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The back of your shirt, it says ‘Johnson’ and ‘51.’”

“Oh! Randy Johnson!” As I lead him back to my apartment I tell him about The Big Unit, the six-foot-ten sidewinding lefty who in his prime regularly threw over 100 mph and whose slider made left-handed hitters beg to be taken out of the lineup, about his five Cy Young awards and his two no-hitters and his perfect game, his World Series performance with the Diamondbacks — 

I need to shut up. I swing around to face him, catching him in the light of the gecko. “Do you even like baseball, Father?”

To my great surprise, he looks amused. “Not as much as you, Miri, but I do know a little about it. You know, there’s an Italian Baseball League team in Nettuno, on the coast near here.”

“There is?” I swing back around and can’t contain a little skip of joy. “Oh, boy!” I hear the softest of chuckles behind me and I can’t help needling him, “So do you go to their games using the vast network of passageways that run through your chambers down to the coast?” He doesn’t respond and I know my promise to God didn’t work and my evil genius will not go quietly. 

Then we’re climbing up the stairs and into my living room. The sun has just set and the sky is a lovely violet blue and Father Patrick immediately crosses to the window and takes in the view of the city.

“How beautiful!”

His own study, I remember, has only a small window looking out onto a courtyard. And thinking about his study, I realize that the tables are turned and now I’m Father Patrick’s host and he deserves the same courtesy he showed me. 

“Father, please, have a seat.” I gesture to the sofa. “I’ll be right back.”

I go into the kitchen and whip open the cupboards in quick succession, wondering why I’m expecting delicate china teacups — much less tea and cookies — to miraculously appear just because I’m entertaining the camerlengo. Then I see the “care package” my little brother sent me sitting on the counter and, hoping he sent something useful, I start to tear into it just as Father Patrick appears in the doorway.

There’s a dusty priest in my kitchen. Isn’t there something wrong with this picture?

He’s looking around with open curiosity at my fish-shaped plates, the cow-spotted teakettle, the calendar from the California Academy of Sciences featuring Buccalo the giant sea bass, the pile of plastic take-out containers from the deli around the corner I’d washed and saved in case I needed them again…. 

Father Patrick says, perfectly serious about the scrutiny he’s subjecting the kitchen to, “They don’t let me out of the Vatican much.” 

“Oh.” I look around the kitchen myself and decide, “Well, I don’t think this is typical of the average Roman citizen.”

“In what way?”

“Most Roman citizens didn’t just move here from America. And could probably offer to make you an espresso.”

He nods, assessing, making allowances. I self-consciously reach for a steak knife and open the care package, still determined to provide some kind of refreshment for Father Patrick — 

I sigh, “Oh, Leo.” — even if it’s a teenage boy’s idea of refreshment.

“Who is Leo?” he asks.

“My brother. He sent me some things from the States he thought I might not be able to get here.”

He peers into the box along with me. “I don’t recall — was there a ‘Star Trek’ character named Leo?”

“He’s actually named Leonard, after the doctor, Leonard McCoy.”

“And you call him Leo, not Bones?” 

I pull out three bricks of pink popcorn and a box of red vines.“My parents didn’t want to be obvious; they just wanted to pay homage.”

“Otherwise, I suppose, you’d be named Uhura and he’d be Spock.” 

“Got that right,” I agree grimly. And then I sneak a sideways glance at Father Patrick. He knew Doctor McCoy’s nickname. Is he...a Trekkie? Good heavens.

I hold out a container of Tang for his inspection and ask frankly, “Are you interested in trying any of this, Father?”

“Of course,” he insists politely, nobly. If you can’t take a priest at his word, who can you take it from? In my wildest, most daring daydreams, though, I never would have imagined making Tang, the breakfast drink of the astronauts, with the camerlengo. Thanks, Leo.

To preserve what dignity he has left, I give Father Patrick the Poetry Daily mug and keep the ankylosaur mug for myself. It’s the least I can do when I’m feeding him cheese puffs. As I turn on the lights in the living room I have a sudden thought. “What if the passageway between our places is exactly so the camerlengo can get out of the Vatican and see how other people live?”

He settles onto the sofa. “Do you mean, like ‘The Prince and the Pauper’?”

I haul the armchair across the room so it faces the sofa and sit down. “I was thinking more like Audrey Hepburn in ‘Roman Holiday’ but — yeah, like that.” 

“First of all, I reject the comparison to Audrey Hepburn.” He says this with the same measuring look in his eyes he’s given me ever since I popped into his chambers, but for some reason I now suspect him of a sense of humor. “Second, it isn’t that the camerlengo’s a prisoner in the Vatican, Miri. It’s just that my duties don’t often take me to private residences.”

I’m not ready to let go of this particular train of thought, though. “Are your duties so — strenuous, you sometimes feel the need to get away? Maybe in the past no one lived here, it was the camerlengo’s retreat or something.” 

He tries a chili-and-cheese-flavored corn chip. It’s a little late to worry if any of this is going to make him sick to his stomach or not but I put in a silent prayer to the patron saint of gastrointestinal disorders anyway as he answers, “If anyone needs a retreat, it’s His Holiness, not the camerlengo, and I’ve never heard of a passageway like this from his chambers to chambers in Rome.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, it’d be a secret, otherwise how could he sneak away?”

“His Holiness does not sneak.” There it is again! Or I think it is. Is he trying to be funny? Before I can make up my mind he goes on, “Besides, I think the camerlengo could do better than this, don’t you?”

“Maybe this was really plush back in the day.” For heaven’s sake, why can’t I stop talking back to a priest? “I’m sorry, Father Patrick, I don’t mean to sass you — ”

“Sass me?” 

Do they not say “sass” in Ireland? “Talk back to you. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, I don’t mean to be irreverent, honest — ”

“You just tend to say the first thing that comes to mind.”

I shrug helplessly. “Pretty much.”

He smiles at that. I hadn’t realized it but I haven’t seen him smile before, and his whole face lights up when he smiles, he looks so delighted, and his eyes become incredibly warm — more like Monterey Bay than Mavericks — and I forget to breathe.

His lips are moving. He must be saying something. I tune in. “— people tend to be on their best behavior around me, Miri, and they’re so careful about every word they say in front of me. That you’re not intimidated by me — ”

I start to protest, but shove some pink popcorn in my mouth to shut myself up as my mind finally catches up with the rest of me. Father Patrick McKenna, the stern, serious camerlengo, is sitting in the apartment of some woman he just met and eating junk food and he looks like he’s actually enjoying himself. Does he really need to know he’s been intimidating the hell out of me? Of course not.

Maybe I was right. Not about the underground railroad but about the camerlengo needing a retreat of some kind. He’s easily the youngest priest I’ve seen at St. Peter’s, and one of the few who speaks English. Maybe it helps to be with someone closer to his age who can hold a conversation in his native language. Maybe there aren’t that many opportunities for him to just sit around and relax and talk about things that have nothing to do with — whatever a camerlengo does.

Maybe he just needs a friend.

“ — that you feel you can be yourself around me, is…refreshing.”

Really? “Wow, they really _don’t_ let you out of the Vatican much!” Too late I clap my hand over my mouth, but Father Patrick gives a sharp crack of laughter.

“It’s true!” he agrees. “When I was nine years old, His Holiness adopted me and I essentially grew up in the church.”

“How — what? Your father is the pope? What were you, some sort of religious prodigy?”

“Hardly!” He takes a sip of Tang and hazards a cheese puff. “He was visiting Ulster when a bomb that was meant for him killed my entire family instead. I was left an orphan, and he adopted me.” He reaches for a red vine and starts to chew on it when he intercepts my gaze and asks, looking amused, “What?”

Clearly there’s no self-pity in him when it comes to his past, it’s just a fact to him, but it must have shown on my face that suddenly it was like I was watching a movie (starring the little Irish boy from “Millions” and “The Water Horse,” the kid with all the freckles) — in my mind’s eye I saw a little boy traumatized by the murder of his parents being dragged off to Italy by a total stranger, not knowing the language and horribly homesick and having to eat linguine carbonara instead of lamb stew and forced to think of a bunch of old priests as his new family. 

Of course, I can’t cop to that — he already thinks I’m weird. So I tell him, “That makes my twelve years of Catholic school seem like summer vacation.”

“In what way?”

“Well, when the bell rang at 3 I could at least leave Sister Florencia and Sister Mary Verissima behind and go play tag with the public school kids and learn a new curse word or something but you came home to milk and cookies and the _pope_ asking how your day went!”

Father Patrick laughs harder at that and I feel my face flush hot. Finally he manages, “It wasn’t as bad as all that, Miri.” A pause. “My father was only an archbishop at the time.” 

He grins at his own joke and I can’t help giggling despite myself. Everyone’s a comedian tonight.

We pass on to the more mundane topic of my own family (which I gloss over in case it seems like I’m bragging that all my relatives are still alive, nyerhe!) and then tell him what brought me to Rome — a position at the university, teaching literature in English — thinking that by cleverly letting slip I have a Ph.D. he’ll be so impressed it’ll turn his opinion of me around, but of course that isn’t what catches his attention. 

“Did you bring many books in English with you?”

“Practically my whole library. Books are the one thing I splurged on shipping over here.”

“Would it be possible for me to borrow one or two? Books are a bit of a luxury on a priest’s salary — ”

I jump up and lead the way to the bookshelves; they’re on the other side of the trapdoor, near the desk. As he examines my collection I have a brief moment of panic wondering if I own anything incriminating, and just as quickly I remember that I put all the books I’d need for my courses near the desk and all the truly incriminating books — the pirate romances, the Jenny and the Cat Club books, the historical fantasies, the Calvin and Hobbes — are in my bedroom, and he’s not going anywhere near there. I breathe a silent sigh of relief. 

He’s familiar with the 19th century authors and some of the early 20th century, but gets lost somewhere in the Modernists. We each select an armful of books for him to examine further and as we turn to go back to the sofa he asks, catching sight of a photo on my desk, “Is that your family?”

“Yep, that’s Clan Stannis.” We move closer to the desk and I point out, “My mom, Leo, Carolyn, and my dad.”

“Carolyn…” Father Patrick tilts his head slightly. “Is she also named after...?” 

I nod. “Lt. Carolyn Palamas, Anthropology and Archaeology officer.”

“Carolyn and Leo have your mother’s hair,” he comments. 

“Mom calls it ‘otter brown’ — glossy, dark, looks a little reddish in the sun.”

Father Patrick looks amused at the description. “And you and your father?” he asks about the lighter-haired side of the family.

“More kelp than otter.”

“And you’re all at the beach — is there a water motif in your family?” 

“Mom’s a marine biologist. Dad’s a chef. It’s either about water, or food.”

“Except if it’s about literature.”

I give a modest shrug. “We all have our little rebellions.” Except for Father Patrick; he went into the family business. But I guess he didn’t have much of a choice.

We sit down again, munching on bad food and talking about the authors he’s missed out on. He’s a perceptive reader, discerning, and I think I’m coming across as intelligent, thoughtful, adult — except when he can’t help laughing at one of my particularly biased opinions, like about Language poets. (What a waste of trees those pretentious idiots are. Seriously.) He decides to take a couple of short novels and a book of poetry. 

“I guess I shouldn’t overstay my welcome,” he says. He starts to stack the cereal bowls now empty of snacks but I wave him off. He puts out his hand, smiling. “Then thank you for a very pleasant evening indeed, Miri.”

I shake his hand. It’s warm and dry, his grip is firm, and — I don’t want to think any further about his hand. “Come back anytime, Father.” He looks a question at me. “I mean it. The passage leads between our apartments and nowhere else. You’re probably meant to be here.” 

“Reading your books and eating your crisps.”

“And drinking my Tang, sure. It has more vitamin C than orange juice. Oh, here!” I reach into my pocket, hand him the gecko. “You’ll need this.”

I watch as he makes his way down the stairs, and then find I can’t move. I can’t even think. I can’t make sense of it. What just happened? Was it real? Of course it was real, there’s a dusty spot on my sofa where he was just sitting — can I vacuum that up, or is it holy dust? And the way he says my name with his accent — ! 

I manage a deep breath, and then another, and then another. I walk slowly and deliberately into my bedroom, throw myself on the bed, bury my face in a pillow, and scream.

When I get up there’s a faint, dusty outline of me on the comforter. Just great. I feel only slightly saner but I carefully remove my dirty clothes and get them into the laundry basket and then I take a shower. And as I make sure I wash every last cobweb out of my kelp brown hair, I realize my name makes perfect sense. Miri was the plain, awkward teenage girl who had a hopeless crush on the handsome, dashing, offhandedly charming, carelessly kind Captain Kirk. And Father Patrick is my Captain Kirk.

Then, sure I’m not going to get anything else dirty, I put on some sweats and go into the kitchen and pull out the butter and sugar and flour. I’m going to make shortbread for my new friend the camerlengo.

**_End Part 1_ **


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course it’s Father Patrick on the other side of the screen. Why didn’t I check who was hearing confessions today?

“Bless me Father for I have sinned, it’s been a week since my last confession and for my penance I’ve been praying every day for John Elway and trying — ”

“And has that been helping, my child?”

Of course it’s Father Patrick on the other side of the screen. Why didn’t I check who was hearing confessions today? Probably because the only way to do that is to throw open the door of the confessional and that would hardly be polite. I wonder if disguising my voice will keep him from realizing I’m the same woman who has an apartment at the end of his private tunnel.

“I’ve…been trying to focus on the good in him but it’s not enough, every time I picture his pasty self-satisfied face I hate him all over again, I know ‘hate’ is a strong word but when it comes to him or Manny fu— Manny Ramirez or Phil Jackson or — ”

“My child — ” He sounds genuinely puzzled, and I shut my mouth. “ — is there anyone in your life you _like_?”

I think on it. “There’s Randy Johnson.”

“Randy John — Miri?”

Oh, heck. “Hi, Father Patrick,” I say in a small voice.

And now he’s putting two and two together — mind like a steel trap, that Father Patrick. “All these men you’ve spoken of to me — they’re not your acquaintances, are they? They’re professional athletes.”

I nod, realize he can’t see me, and say aloud, “Yes, Father. Coaches, too,” I add in an attempt to be completely honest. 

“You don’t even know them, Miri, they’ve done nothing to you — ”

“But that’s not the point, Father!” 

He audibly exhales, trying to be patient with me. “What is the point, Miri?”

“It’s…” I have no idea. “…irrational. It’s not supposed to make sense.”

“Miri,” he says sternly. “I think you _like_ hating these men.”

“Um…” The priest definitely has a point.

“Nothing will change until you let go of this hate. Perhaps you need to stop caring so much about these teams that are now halfway around the world from you — ”

“And root for local teams?”

“— and develop different interests,” he continues over me. “I’m not sure where this hate and anger come from, but you shouldn’t dwell on these negative emotions.” A pause. “We don’t have the time now to discuss this the way we need to. Tomorrow is Sunday — ”

“You’ll probably be pretty busy,” I guess.

“I will. Monday night — ”

“I have rehearsal.”

“Tuesday is bad...Wednesday — ”

“Sectional.”

“Thursdays I have dinner with my father...Friday — that’s waiting too long. What are you doing tonight? Are you free tonight, Miri?”

“Yes, Father,” I say, and immediately regret it. How lame am I, that I’m a single woman in Rome and I don’t have a date on a Saturday night? Does he really want to hang out with a loser? 

“Come to my chambers — wait, I have your flashlight. I’ll come over after evening prayers.”

I hear him starting to slide the panel between us closed and I ask, “Aren’t you going to absolve me of my sins?”

“I cannot absolve you unless you’re actually contrite.” Ow. _That’s_ what a smackdown from a priest feels like. “I’ll see you tonight, Miri.”

“Yes, Father.” I get up slowly and push open the door of the confessional. Instead of leaving St. Peter’s, though, I go kneel before the Virgin Mary as if Father Patrick’s actually given me Our Fathers and Hail Marys to say; I don’t want anyone there to know my confession was rejected. 

I clasp my hands tight and have to blink hard as I fight the sudden urge to burst into tears. I thought we were starting to be friends! And now he’s getting all — priestly on me! He knows I can’t receive communion tomorrow if I haven’t confessed! But the worst thing is that at my last confession at least he’d thought I had a chance to change. Now he knows me better and he doesn’t think there’s any hope at all. 

And those shortbread cookies I stayed up all night making — I can’t give them to him now, it’ll look like some kind of bribe. I wonder if he’ll ever like me again. 

I walk out of St. Peter’s feeling terribly sorry for myself, but halfway home I realize — I have a date with the camerlengo tonight! 

***

As Father Patrick comes up the stairs he hands over the gecko and notes, “You’ve been busy today.” 

No kidding. I’d spent the whole morning cleaning the passageway. After, of course, installing a bunch of puck lights between his place and mine because it’s really hard to clean when you’re trying to hold a cow-shaped flashlight (that keeps mooing) between your teeth. 

“Well, I thought — if the passageway’s cleaner, it’d be easier on your uniform.”

“It’s called a ‘cassock,’” he corrects, donning his purple priest’s scarf — and it’s probably not called a scarf — so the ends hang over his shoulders. This is no social visit, he’s in full-on confessor mode and I’m glad I didn’t put out any drinks or snacks.

“Cassock,” I repeat. Then I hand him a piece of paper. “I made a list of all the people I hate, Father.”

He glances at it, then turns it over and sees the writing on the other side. His voice is faint with disbelief. “There are four columns of names here.”

“I know. I kind of surprised myself.”

Father Patrick sets his bible on the coffee table and sinks into the armchair to peruse the list. I perch on the edge of the sofa and watch his expression. He’s frowning; clearly the names don’t mean anything to him. I should have annotated the list.

He flips the page over and finally finds a few names he knows. “There’s John Elway, I think I’ve gotten to know him...Jeff Kent you’ve spoken of as well...Kobe Bryant, I’ve actually heard of him! If you’d mentioned him in the confessional I would have caught on much sooner, Miri.” 

I’ve never felt more miserable than I do sitting across from the camerlengo, having him judge me and find me lacking. I force myself to meet his gaze — and see the corner of his mouth twitch the tiniest bit. Wait, I’m not on the verge of excommunication?

“At dinner in the refectory tonight I sat at a table with several rather partisan football fans and I have to admit, there’s a certain...exhilaration in defending your team at the expense of another.” Is he serious? “I came to realize there are quite a few reasons someone would ignore all logic and assert opinion as fact. Such as when Cardinal O’Connor enlists your support against the Italian and Spanish cardinals and you become ‘one of the guys’ and, for a little while at least, cease being ‘the kid.’”

Immediately I imagine Barry Fitzgerald from “Going My Way” as Cardinal O’Connor roping Father Patrick into a spirited defense of Northern Ireland’s football prowess against the agitated assertions of Romolo Valli from “The Leopard” and...I can’t think of any priests in Spanish movies so I put Javier Bardem in a cassock and I’m about to let them have at it but Javier Bardem throws the whole refectory table off so I quickly recast Liam Neeson for Barry Fitzgerald and Christopher Meloni for Romolo Valli and put them all in cassocks and red skullcaps and — that’s a pretty hot-looking foursome, especially if they’re getting all intense about football, maybe... Hey! Focus!

Another, more rational part of my mind has registered that Father Patrick doesn’t seem to take it too hard when people tease him, but I’m outraged for him. “They call you ‘the kid’?!”

“To them I am, you know.”

“But you’re the camerlengo!” 

“When you’re my age, even being the camerlengo doesn’t count for much.”

“But — ”And it suddenly dawns on me that being the camerlengo is a full-time job in and of itself. “Oh my gosh, this is overtime for you! It’s Saturday night, Father Patrick, you shouldn’t be here working, you should be — ”

I’m starting to recognize the look he gives me — part amusement, part bafflement, as if he’s not quite sure what to make of all my trains of thought crashing into the station at the same time. “First of all, there’s no such thing as ‘overtime’ for a priest. Second, I ‘should be’ what?”

“Doing whatever priests do when they’re off the clock! Play chess, listen to classical music, read biblical journals — ” He bursts into laughter at my idea of what clergy do in their down time. “ — watch a Champions League game — ”

“Now if,” he breaks in, sounding a little choked, “there was a game tonight involving Italy, Northern Ireland, or Spain, I probably _would_ be watching it — ”

“Solidifying your position as ‘one of the guys’?”

“Exactly. I understand wanting that sense of belonging, of uniting against the world, as it were. And I believe in your case that’s where such animus as you’ve expressed to me comes from. You wouldn’t feel as strongly about John Elway if he didn’t play for the opposing team, would you?”

If John had gone to Cal instead of Stanford? “I’d probably cut him some slack,” I admit. 

“Is there anyone on your list you know personally?”

I take the list from him and run my eye down all four columns. “No, Father.”

“I didn’t think so. You feel very passionately about your teams but you know where that passion ends and the real world begins. But hate, even of people you’re never going to meet, is a heavy burden to carry, Miri.” He looks earnestly at me, and Javier Cardinal Bardem, Liam Cardinal Neeson, and Christopher Cardinal Meloni all range themselves behind him, arms folded and gazes stern. This is serious and I’d better listen up.

“I don’t want this to get out of hand. I don’t want you to become embittered and so angry you can’t see the good in other people, in your life, in the world around you. The world really is a glorious, awesome place, and I don’t want you to miss it.”

He’s being so _nice_! He smiles at me and I have never wanted so badly to be worthy of such a warm, encouraging smile. No matter what he says about there being no overtime for priests I know his being in my living room isn’t a normal part of his duties, that he’s taking the time because he cares enough to try to impart some wisdom to the most crackpot sheep of his flock. 

Father Patrick goes on, “You may have heard that the opposite of hate isn’t love, but indifference. So for your penance, I want you to work on letting go. I want you to come up with another list. All the people you like, especially those you know personally. It should be at least as long as this list. And every time you find yourself slipping into old habits of thinking negatively about someone, think instead of someone on your new list. We’ll discuss how that works for you next week. All right?”

“All right, Father.” 

The cardinals relax, and I breathe a little easier.

“Is there anything else you’d like to confess at this time?”

“I got dirt all over a priest’s study last night.”

“That’s not a sin.”

Sure felt like it. “I sassed a priest several times last night, too.”

“You must always remember to respect your elders, my child.”

“Yes, Father, I’ll do my best.”

We bow our heads as I recite the Act of Contrition, and then Father Patrick prays for my absolution (in Latin, which strikes me as a little show-offy but I’m all about respecting my elders now so I say nothing). And just like that, I’m ready for communion tomorrow and for the rest of the week! 

“Thank you so much, Father Patrick, I owe you big time!” As he takes off his scarf, I ask, “Now that you’re off the clock, do you want to stay and — ?”

“I didn’t bring any biblical journals with me.” His expression is guileless but I swear, that’s a glint of mischief in his blue-green eyes. But just as I’m thinking there’s something incredibly sexy about a mischievous priest he adds, “And my sermon still needs work,” and suddenly I’m over it.

“Then how about — wait right here, before you go — ” I dash into the kitchen and quickly pack up a plastic take-out container with his shortbread. When I dash back out I see he’s admiring the view out the window. “Making a wish on the first star of the evening?” 

He follows my gaze. “That’s a planet.”

“What?”

“It’s not a star; it’s Venus.”

I sputter with outrage, making Father Patrick laugh, then I manage, “How many wishes have I wasted on planets when I thought they were stars?”

“Too many?” 

Well, that explains why none of them come true, anyway. With some chagrin I look at him — and see something warm deep in his eyes. He’s not just laughing at me; sure, I can bust him up without even trying, but when he tells me gently, “In the future, you might find prayer more effective,” I know there’s compassion, there, too. 

“Yes, Father.” I hand him the shortbread and explain, “Just something to snack on later.”

“Did you make these?” I nod, and he suddenly grins like a kid who’s just gotten exactly what he wanted for Christmas. “They look delicious! Thank you, Miri.” 

“Thank _you_ , Father.” 

He gathers up his scarf and bible, and right before he’s about to go down the stairs, he leans close and hints, “I like chocolate, too.” And then he’s gone and I see the passageway go dark, light by light, as he turns them off on his way back to his study.

I can do chocolate. 

But first I need to work on a list of my favorite people. 

**_End Part 2_ **


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When they told me there was a crazy American in the dishroom — ”  
> “— you should have known it was me,” I finish for Father Patrick.

I know my way around the soup kitchen’s dishroom so I go straight in and start the hot water running into one of the sinks. I grab a plastic apron and rubber gloves, crank up the radio, and tackle the stock pots while singing along to an Italian Top 40 that’s becoming increasingly familiar. The nice thing about this station is that every so often they throw in a song in English and then I can really go to town. 

I’m just finishing the knives and cutting boards and wondering why no one’s brought in any dishes from dinner service when Madonna’s “True Blue” comes on and I give it all I’ve got. 

“... _no-whoa more sadness_!’ (wagging my finger back and forth) “ _I kiss it goodbye_!” (miming blowing a kiss) “ _The sun is bursting right out of the sky_!” (jazz hands, starting above my head and dropping to shoulder level and right leg stretching to the side) “ _I searched the whole world_ — ” (waving the jazz hands as I rock from side to side)

“— excuse me!” 

“— _for someone like you_ — ” I turn around and point.

At Father Patrick. I haven’t run into him since Saturday night so of course it’s him standing in the doorway to the dining room wearing a faded green bib apron and trying so hard not to laugh at me he can barely say, “When they told me there was a crazy American in the dishroom — ”

“— you should have known it was me,” I finish for him, my face turning bright red even as I’m laughing at myself. 

He shakes his head, grinning. “I’ll tell everyone it’s safe to come in.” He turns to go back to the dining room— and I notice he’s wearing, not a cassock, but a clerical shirt and trousers, which show off the most stupendous ass I’ve ever seen. Who knew he was hiding that underneath his cassock? 

Oh, bad Miri. Bad bad bad! I turn back to the sink and swipe at my forehead with my arm, and not just because of the steam from the dishwater. 

Father Patrick comes back in with several high-schoolers trying to get their community service hours completed and a few tubs of dirty dishes. He explains to the kids that I’m not contagious while I kit them out in gloves and aprons and try not to hum, even under my breath. Father Patrick stays for a little while to give the kids moral support, and then he leaves me to my own devices.

I ask them the usual innocuous questions as we wash and dry and stack — if they know each other, where they go to school, if they’ve volunteered at the soup kitchen before, if they play any sports. By the end of dinner service they shyly wave goodbye as they leave — they might have their doubts about me, but at least they’re polite. 

I’m heading to the closet when I hear an Irish-accented voice behind me. “So you like Madonna, then.”

You know, I don’t think I’ve stopped blushing furiously when I’m with Father Patrick since I first discovered that darned tunnel. “Hey, _Italy_ likes Madonna!” I defend myself. “I just sing along.”

He nods, conceding the point. “I don’t think I’ve seen — or heard — you volunteer here before, Miri.” 

Ha ha. “I’ve been working the breakfast shift but they said they thought they’d be short-handed tonight so I told them I’d come in for dinner.”

Even though I’m all kinds of sweaty I pull on my jacket; the catcalls from Italian men with nothing better to do are bad enough but in a damp t-shirt I’m just asking for it. Father Patrick, who probably has never broken a sweat in his life, shrugs into a black suit jacket, and thank goodness — I don’t think I could handle another glimpse of that dorsal fin of his. Then he puts on a black, flat-brimmed hat, the kind that looks picturesque on other priests but on him —

“You look crazy adorable in that hat, Father.” I have no idea why I say these things out loud. And now I’m making _him_ blush.

He informs me, “It’s called a saturno — ”

“Saturno.”

“— and I don’t believe you should be addressing the camerlengo in that manner.”

“I _know_ I shouldn’t be,” I admit, belatedly remembering I’m supposed to respect my elders. 

We head out talking about the soup kitchen and he tells me about the other work they do with the homeless. But I’m surprised to notice the reaction to Father Patrick as we walk down the street. I was sort of expecting people to stop him, say “hello,” ask him how he’s doing, tell him about their family, just like people do with the priests back home. But here people nod at him so deeply they’re almost bowing to him, and they pointedly give him a wide berth, and no one talks to him. (An interesting corollary to this is that no one talks to me, either, which is actually a relief. Not a single wolf whistle or “Bambina!” reaches my ears. Maybe when I want to run an errand I should just wait for a priest to walk by and draft behind him.) It makes me realize just how reverently Rome treats its priests and that when Father Patrick told me no one talks to him the way I do, he meant it literally. 

I had no idea just how bad a Catholic I’m being. Boy, whoever’s manning the confessional on Saturday is going to get an earful. 

He seems surprised when we stop at my place, and then smiles to himself. “I’ve never seen the front of your building, Miri.” 

“Now you know what it looks like, you can take the shortcut back to your place anytime, Father.” 

“Do I get a key, then?”

I know he’s teasing me but I assure him, “Of course! I’ll get a set made tomorrow.” 

There’s a box waiting for me outside my apartment, and Father Patrick, who had taken off his saturno when he’d entered the building, hands it to me so he can hoist the box into his arms. I go up on tiptoe to check the return address. “It’s from Carolyn!” On the way to the kitchen I make sure to carefully place the saturno on the coffee table (I might not treat the priest with enough respect but I can at least respect the hat) and then I gleefully tear into the box. 

“Oh, Carolyn, you are awesome!” She’s sent me a charcoal-gray glazed ceramic tea pot and four matching charcoal-gray cups with a light autumn-orange interior glaze. “I don’t know where she found it.” 

“Found what?”

“A tea set in San Francisco Giants colors.” Then I look at Father Patrick, stricken. I’m supposed to be indifferent when it comes to sports. “Can I keep it, Father?” ( _Pleasepleaseplease_ is, I hope, implicit in my best pathetic puppy dog look.)

“Of course — ” I give a little spring of joy and he laughs along with my relieved happiness. “ — it’s a gift from your sister and does no dishonor to any other team.”

I spy among the bubble wrap some silver canisters of looseleaf tea. “Do you want to help inaugurate the tea set?”

He gives his schedule some thought. “Well, I’m not signed up for tonight’s chess tournament ...”

He’s not going to let me live that down, is he? Then I have a brilliant idea and shove the box at him. “Here, Father, you pick a tea and I’ll make some brownies.” I level a look at him, trying to shrug out of my jacket at the same time. “You _can_ get serious about brownies, right?”

His answer is the speed with which he helps relieve me of my jacket to give me room to maneuver. When he comes back into the kitchen he watches as I plunk butter and baking chocolate into a pot and says, sounding a little puzzled, “I don’t remember making brownies like that.”

“How did you make them?”

“I would watch my mother bake and…she used powdered chocolate, not chocolate bars.” He straightens. “I haven’t thought about that in years.”

The little Irish kid from the movies is back, all freckles and bright eyes, his elbows on the kitchen table and his face propped in his hands, watching as his mom measures out flour and cocoa powder in a sunlight-filled kitchen...

I look over at Father Patrick and see that his expression is a little dreamy. He’s so cute. “Have you been back to Ireland since you moved here?” 

He visibly comes back to the present. “No. My father thought it would be best if I simply made Italy my home. He’s the wisest man I’ve ever known and I’ve had no reason to regret the decision.”

So when he says he hasn’t thought about his mother in years, he means since-he-was-adopted-and-moved-to-Italy years? Wow. “We can do a taste test, see if they’re anything like your mom’s.”

“I doubt I could tell if they tasted like my mother’s. It’s been so long — ”

“You’d be surprised, Father.” I take the melted chocolate off the heat and stir in some sugar. “I remember one time my family went out for breakfast and I had some French toast off of Leo’s plate and I just about burst into tears, it tasted exactly like the French toast our grandma used to make and she’d died over ten years before.”

“What did Leo think?”

“He was too young to remember her French toast. But my dad agreed with me. And Carolyn _did_ burst into tears. Poor Leo, we had to give him all our bacon to make up for eating his breakfast. But see?” I point my wooden spoon at the camerlengo, making my point. “Taste is a powerful memory, it can take you back just like that. You’ll see.” 

I add eggs and vanilla to the chocolate and beat like crazy, while Father Patrick takes the wax wrapper from the stick of butter and smears it around the bottom and sides of the pan. “Don’t forget the corners.”

“I would never forget the corners.” 

I stir flour in with the chocolate and dump the batter into the pan Father Patrick’s holding steady for me — the pan I didn’t ask him to butter, but he did anyway. He must have done this as a kid helping his mom in the kitchen.

“No walnuts?” he asks, curious. 

I’m horrified. “Heck no! I mean — Mom and Carolyn are deathly allergic to nuts, none of us cooks with them.”

He’s closer to the sink so I hand the pot and spoon to him. He gets a look in his eyes like he just might lick them both and I hastily turn away to put the brownies in the oven. Watching him lick anything is probably not a good idea. 

I put the cow-spotted tea kettle on to boil while Father Patrick is unpacking the rest of Carolyn’s care package when he pulls out two CDs. “Bach’s ‘Mass in B Minor’?” 

“Those are from Mom,” I explain. “The chorus I joined is singing the Mass and she thought it might help if I heard different recordings of it.”

He looks them over critically. “Good choice. I like these both.” He asks how rehearsal’s going, and he commiserates with me on the difficulty of the piece (of course he’s sung the Mass himself several times; is there anything Father Patrick doesn’t do?) and offers me tips on how to approach the score. I take mental notes; no need to tell him it’s the first time I’ve ever tried to sing anything classical and it’s kicking my butt. But then he catches on that I can’t read music. 

He looks at me, incredulous. “How can you possibly sing a piece this complicated and not use the score, Miri?”

“I’ve got a cd with the alto part and I just listen to it over and over. Eventually I’ll have it memorized. I mean, I can see in the score that the notes go up and down, but the names of the notes or — time signatures, intervals, major and minor chords? Nope.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to learn how to read music?”

The cow starts whistling and I shrug, turning off the burner. “I don’t know. Would it?” 

“Let’s find out.” He opens a canister of oolong. “I’ll teach you.”

I stare at him. “Do you sleep?”

“Please?”

“I mean, you work nine-to-five, plus overtime saying mass and hearing confessions, plus you do good works, plus you sing the great choral works, plus you read contemporary literature, _plus_ you’re going to teach me to read music? You must not need much sleep.”

“Well, you do the same thing, work full-time all day and volunteer — ”

“Oh, no, I’m not working yet! I start teaching in the fall, I came to Rome early to get acclimated. _I_ sleep.”

“So do I,” he insists with a smile. “But I don’t think anyone becomes a priest because they long for a desk job.”

“Is that what the camerlengo does? Is?”

He follows me into the living room with the tea cups while I carefully balance the tea pot. “It’s more than _just_ a desk job, of course, and it’s a position traditionally held by a cardinal, not a priest, so it’s quite unusual that I was named to the post. But I still miss my other duties so I fit them in where I can.”

He moves his saturno to the sofa and sits beside it so I scoot onto the armchair, and it isn’t until we’re sipping oolong with the coffee table between us that I realize we’d been in really, really close quarters in the kitchen. I need to stop doing that. 

“Let’s see if we can figure out a good time for your first music lesson,” he says. “I’ll be gone this weekend with the Aeronautica Militare — ”

“— so between that and the article you’re writing for the ‘Journal of Applied Biblical Research and Methodology’ and rehearsal with the Vatican String Quartet — ”

“No, really.”

He’s serious? He’s serious! My jaw literally drops. “You — the Aeronautica Militare? _What_?” 

“When I was younger I wanted to serve my new country and my father told me to learn to fly,” he explains. “I joined the Italian Air Force and flew helicopters, bringing the wounded back to hospital. I still train with them to keep my skills up, one weekend a month and two weeks a year. This weekend we’ll be working on search and rescue.”

Suddenly I see him in a flight suit, striding across the desert in slow-motion with Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum, the three of them grinning and smoking cigars after cheating death and saving the world. But that picture is so one-dimensional, it doesn’t even begin to do justice to all the ways Father Patrick rocks and instead I see him — 

“...Miri?” 

“I’m sorry?”

“You get this look sometimes, like you’re not here anymore. Where do you go?”

I pour more tea for myself and try to think of something plausible to say. I can’t. And my face is red again. “I...go...to the movies. Someone says something and I make up a scene about it and it plays like a movie in my head.”

He gives me the tolerant-but-amused look a long-suffering therapist would give a patient. “So what was the movie just now?”

I say slowly, “It was just starting.” He nods for me to continue. “I was thinking about ‘Young and Dangerous,’ it’s a movie about a group of teenagers who join a triad —”

“Triad?”

“Like the mafia, but Chinese.”

“And how did you get from the Aeronautica Militare to ‘Young and Dangerous’?”

“I was...trying to think of someone who equals how you serve in the Air Force and save peoples’ souls at the same time and there’s this character, Father Lam, he tells the teenagers that before he became a priest he was a triad member called Lethal Weapon and at first you don’t know whether to believe him or not but later on when push comes to shove he busts out a kung fu kick to Ugly Kwan’s head and— ”

“Ugly Kwan is the bad guy?”

“Oh, yeah! Father Lam is nothing but righteous. Ugly Kwan definitely deserved the beat-down.” 

“And if your movie had played…?” 

“I would have cast you as Father Lam. Donnie Yen would have backed you up. And the fight scene would have been longer.”

He can’t hold his laughter in any more. “You know, I think I need to see this movie.”

“I’ll see if Mom can send a copy.” Saying that makes me realize that this is all Mom’s fault. If she hadn’t raised me watching every movie under the sun, my imagination wouldn’t be half as out of control as it is. 

And by the time the oven timer goes off, we’ve figured out that I’ll have Father Patrick all to myself Friday night. Oh boy. 

When I pull the brownies out of the oven Father Patrick’s right there with a knife. He wants these bad. “You’re supposed to let them — ” _cool_ , I’m about to say, but he looks so disappointed. “Oh, go ahead, Father.” The brownie doesn’t come out cleanly but he’s clearly happy with the mound of chocolate on his fish-shaped plate. He’s courteous enough to scoop some out for me, too, before he dives in. I raise my eyebrows in question. 

“It’s delicious,” he assures me. He devours it all before he elaborates, “But you’re right, Miri — I do remember that my mother’s brownies were different. They weren’t as...”

“Fudgy?”

“Fudgy. They were more like chocolate cake.”

“Know what? I’ll email my dad and see if he has a brownie recipe that uses cocoa powder instead of baking chocolate. They’ll probably be closer to your mom’s.” 

“When? I mean, when will you email your father?”

“Tomorrow — I have to go to the café to send emails, I don’t have internet access here yet.”

“Send it from my computer,” he offers. 

“What, tonight?”

“Why not?” 

How about I’ve already spent more time alone with him than I should and it’ll probably be fodder for my fantasies about him for weeks to come? 

On the other hand, there’s something about this whole brownies-memory thing I want to help him with. I don’t know what it was like to be a little kid and subject yourself to willful amnesia just so you could adjust to a whole new life and not make any trouble for your new dad, but if I can help him recover those good memories of his birth parents, I can’t help thinking that would be a good thing.

“Sure, why not?”

I shovel half the cooling brownies onto his plate and charge down the stairs to the passageway with it, leaving him to pick up his hat and coat and follow. I want to be sure I’m walking in front of Father Patrick — staring at his behind all the way to his study doesn’t make for pure and holy thoughts. 

When we enter his study Father Patrick goes to put his coat and hat away and I can’t immediately see a place to put down the brownies. Both the table by his comfy chair and his desk are covered with neatly-stacked books and papers and files (hey, maybe he _is_ working on a biblical journal article!) except for the space allotted to a surprisingly modern-looking desktop computer. When Father Patrick comes back into the room he logs himself onto the computer and turns it over to me, then takes the brownies someplace safe. Where a glass of cold milk is probably involved.

I’m pretty sure I know how my dad will react to getting an email from the Vatican so in the subject line I type, “Hey Pops, it’s Miri” and I start the message itself with “No, I’m not in trouble.”

In the meantime, Father Patrick has dug up something for me, and when I turn around from his desk he hands me a book with the title “Destructive Emotions: How Can We Overcome Them? A Scientific Dialogue with the Dalai Lama.” 

“Cardinal O’Connor just returned this to me. I thought it might be helpful as you work through your lists of people you like and dislike, another way to think about what it is you’re trying to do.”

Why is he so nice to me? Why does he care so much? “Thanks, Father. It looks really interesting.” That sounds lame, but it’s just that I’m a little stunned. “I really appreciate you thinking of me like that.”

He smiles at me. “You’re welcome.”

We shake hands. And I hightail it out of there. As I walk down the passageway back to my place, turning off the lights as I go, my feet get heavier and heavier until when I reach my stairs I just plunk myself down on the bottom step. I rest “Destructive Emotions” across my knees, my elbows on top of it and my chin in my hands, and stare back down the darkened passageway towards Vatican City. It’s all too awful. I mean, I like Father Patrick. He’s a good man, super nice, really kind, and so holy. But how can he be so holy and so hot at the same time?

If he were just some guy I was interested in this would be perfect; we loan each other books, he’s going to teach me to read music, we volunteer at the same soup kitchen — there’s a tunnel between his place and mine! I’d have ample opportunity to flirt with him. But Father Patrick is Captain Kirk. 

And not just because he’s unattainable, but because he’s totally unaware of me as a woman. Captain Kirk never looked at Yeoman Rand’s legs; I know Father Patrick’s not looking at mine. He’s not being driven crazy by thoughts of me; he’s probably brushed, flossed, in his jammies (now there’s a mental image... cut it out, Miri!) and sleeping the sleep of the perfectly unbothered. It would never occur to him that I’m attracted to him, because he’s not attracted to me. I’m just a soul to him. 

So the plan is — be his friend. Make him brownies. Keep it light. Don’t get mesmerized by his smile or his accent or that look in his eyes when he’s feeling mischievous. And stop checking out his ass.

And on that virtuous note I turn out the last light, climb the stairs, and take myself to bed.

**_End Part 3_ **


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not that I expected Father Patrick to be a bad teacher. I just had some vague idea that a music lesson would be like a chorus rehearsal — the yelling, the angry gestures, the barely-veiled threats, the inability to believe anyone could be so utterly lacking in basic intelligence. Some nights it’s a wonder we sing at all.

Not that I expected Father Patrick to be a bad teacher. I just had some vague idea that a music lesson would be like a chorus rehearsal — the yelling, the angry gestures, the barely-veiled threats, the inability to believe anyone could be so utterly lacking in basic intelligence. Some nights it’s a wonder we sing at all. 

But Father Patrick’s study isn’t a tide pool; it’s more like a sheltered cove. He’s got handouts, he’s borrowed a keyboard, he’s all but set up a chalkboard and drawn diagrams like a coach teaching football plays and he reviews staffs, clefs, measure numbers, and note values with incredible patience and good humor. By the time he’s gotten me through time signatures I’m feeling, not overwhelmed and discouraged, but like I’m actually learning something. He even gives me homework — I’m supposed to mark up my score more systematically, numbering measures and highlighting the alto line and where the tempo changes and circling anyplace where the altos can pick up their entrance note from the sopranos or tenors.

It hardly seems like a fair exchange, but as I put my music away in my drawstring backpack I hand him a takeout container of brownies. He grins. “Are these —?”

“Made with cocoa powder. Dad polled all his co-workers for recipes, so if these don’t taste like your mom’s, I’ll keep trying until we find it.”

“Won’t you stay and have some with me?” he asks.

Like I have anything better to do. But so he won’t think I’m easy I swing the backpack onto my shoulder. “I have — ” and something inside jabs me and I remember what else I’m carrying. “— something else for you.”

I hand him a set of three keys, each neatly color coded with a different key cap, and explain, “The brown one is for the outside door to my building — brown, like the dirt in the garden that’s outside. And green is for the bottom lock to my apartment — green like the grass, on the ground. And blue is the top lock — blue like the sky, up…high.”

He’s trying really hard not to laugh at me. Finally he manages, “May I see your keys?”

I dig them out and hand them to him. They are, of course, color coded just like his. He nods, as if it suddenly all makes sense. Then he asks, more seriously, “Are you sure you want me to have a set, Miri?” 

“Sure, why not? I mean, if you can’t trust the camerlengo with the keys to your place, who can you trust?”

“I’m pleased you trust me that much, but do you really want me walking in and out of your apartment at will?” 

The mental picture is intriguing, but I shrug. “I lived most of my life with either a brother and sister or a bunch of roommates charging around the place. This is actually the first time I’ve lived alone, and it’d be kind of nice to have someone around again. It gets a little too quiet sometimes.”

He smiles. “Your father was right — he thought you’d be getting homesick about now.”

“I’m not homesick! Well, not yet. Give me a couple more months.” 

“And what sort of fish is that?” he asks, handing back my keychain. I got Father Patrick’s keychain of the Colosseum at the hardware store where I had the keys made, but mine is —

“A mola mola. It’s in the same order as pufferfish but — ” Then something he said sinks in. “What do you mean, my dad was right?”

“In his last email to me your father mentioned that — ”

I’m instantly indignant. “My dad is emailing you? About _me_?”

He gives me a mild look. “Among other things.”

Of course he is! Geez, Miri, you egomaniac! I hasten to assure Father Patrick, “I know you two must have a lot in common — ”

“— even if you can’t think what they might be.”

“Exactly! I mean — ” I grimace, not sure how many times I’ve put my foot in my mouth, and Father Patrick takes pity on me.

“Your father had my email address from when you wrote to him using my account.” Oh, yeah. “He shared with me the story of how he and a friend had tried to become priests — ”

“He and his best friend Louis Olorenshaw, after high school they applied to a seminary together but were rejected,” I suddenly remember. He and Dad tell the story every time Uncle Lou visits, how could I forget it? 

Father Patrick nods. “Your father enjoys having someone with whom he can discuss theological issues.” That makes sense — Dad’s always been a philosopher at heart. “And in some ways he still wonders what it would have been like to be a priest.”

“Really?” After all these years? "Wow." I mean, if Dad had actually gone through with it, become “Father Edward,” then what about Mom? What about me? And Carolyn and Leo, too, but mostly what about _me_?

He looks at me kindly, as if he can read my mind. Or maybe I’m just that transparent. “He hasn’t expressed any regret about being married or having a family. It’s more curiosity than anything.” 

And then he takes my hand in both of his. “Your father loves you very much, Miri. He does ask about you, wants to know that you’re doing well. And he’s sending you a package with some ingredients so you can make your favorite foods and have a taste of home in case you’re getting homesick.” He smiles at me. “So can you stay for a little longer and have some brownies with me?”

Oh, that smile. I manage, “Don’t you have to get up early tomorrow, Father?”

“I do. But I’d like to spend a little more time with you.”

He wants to spend time with me. And I’m already busy melting from him holding my hand. “Then sure,” I give in.

“Good.” Father Patrick pats my hand in the most avuncular way possible, dampening my ardor, and goes to put on some water for tea. “Do you have any plans for the weekend?” he calls from the other room.

I take a deep breath to settle my nerves and gather my thoughts. “The soup kitchen first thing on Saturday, then my mom wants me to go to a demonstration against offshore oil drilling, so — ”

“Do you often go to demonstrations at your mother’s behest?”

“Well, usually the family protests all together, but I’m the only one in Italy.” Father Patrick comes back into the room, clearly finding the Stannis tradition of saving the ocean through dissent odd. “I guess most popes don’t bring up their sons to do a lot of sign-making and marching, huh?”

“Most popes don’t bring up sons, period.”

“Right.” I flounder for something to say that isn’t stupid. “Right. And then…with any luck I’ll get back in time to go to confession —”

“Be sure to tell your confessor about the list of people that you’ve been working on,” he reminds me. I nod obediently; no need to tell him I’m still working on it. It’s a lot harder than I expected, coming up with four columns of people I like! “Did I perchance make the list?” he asks.

“Of course you did, Father!” Apologetic, I add, “After my family,” then quickly offer as compensation, “but before Randy Johnson!”

“Thank you for that, Miri,” he murmurs, and even pressing his lips together he can’t hide a slight smile. Well, better than a guffaw in my face, I guess. 

“And then I figured, with you gone this weekend it’d be the perfect time to take in a — ” 

I need to shut up! I needed to shut up about half a dozen words ago but I never can in front of this man! 

He regards me with eyebrows raised, wanting to hear the rest, and I can’t think of any other way to finish my sentence except with the truth.

“— a ball game,” I say in a really, really small voice. And oh, look, it gets better and better — there’s Christopher Cardinal Meloni in the corner, giving me the fish eye.

The electric kettle whistles, and Father Patrick gives me an unreadable look before he gets up. I slump over and bury my face against my knees with a groan. Is there something clinically wrong with me? I mean, it’s not even that I have to lie to him, I just have to not say anything!

After a while I hear Father Patrick’s measured step as he reenters the study, and then the slight rattle of china as he sets the tea tray on the side table. The wingback chair creaks as he sits down. He says slowly, “I…suppose…it’s a good thing that you don’t seem to be able to dissemble when you’re with me.”

“I think I’m absolutely incapable of dissembling when I’m with you, Father,” I correct him, my voice muffled because I’m still slumped over and refusing to look at him.

“So I can believe anything you tell me.”

“Pretty much.”

“Then…am I so intimidating, Miri?”

I’m so startled by his question my head jerks up. I catch a glimpse of a concerned Javier Cardinal Bardem standing beside Cardinal Meloni as I involuntarily meet Father Patrick’s troubled gaze, which is the gray-blue of the Atlantic on an overcast day. Did I hurt his feelings? I didn’t mean to! “I’m not afraid of you, Father Patrick! I like you tons!”

“But why do you feel that the only time you can go to a baseball game is when I’m out of town? Why do you feel you must hide from me that you’re going at all?” 

“Because you’re Captain Kirk!” 

Liam Cardinal Neeson looks just as nonplussed as Cardinal Meloni and Cardinal Bardem as Father Patrick repeats, “Because I’m…?”

“…Captain Kirk, and only the best of the best can serve under him and you don’t want to be unworthy of that because there are at least a dozen other people just waiting back at Starfleet Academy for you to fail so they can take your place and you don’t want him to think badly of you because he’s, you know, a legend so you try not to do a single thing that would make you look less than absolutely perfect, even off-duty.” I frown. “That’s not the best analogy — ”

“Not least since the Vatican is not the _Enterprise_.” Cardinal Bardem snorts at that but Cardinal Meloni shoots the fish eye his way and he quickly straightens up and looks grave.

“I just mean that you’re up here — ” I measure off up around my head. “—and I’m down here — ” I drop my hand. “ — and I just don’t want to disappoint you.” 

Father Patrick opens his mouth, thinks better of whatever he was going to say, and instead pours tea for us both. I sip nervously and watch as he doctors his cup with cream and sugar then takes a slow, meditative sip. 

“Miri.” He puts his cup down and regards me soberly. “I am a priest, and your spiritual advisor, but that’s the _only way_ in which I might be at all superior to you. There’s not the — huge gulf between us you’re imagining.” 

He’s mistaken, of course. That Mariana Trench-sized gulf is what keeps me on my side of the table and his virtue intact.

“And if I gave you the impression that I didn’t think you should ever go to another baseball game…I apologize for that, I didn’t mean to. In any case, you’re an adult, and able to make your own decisions about how to live your life. I can…guide you, I can give you my opinion, but that’s all.” 

“But, Father, if I know you don’t approve then shouldn’t I — ”

“It’s not that I do or don’t approve of you attending baseball games. It’s that I want you to be aware of the negativity of your emotions and try to turn them into something positive.” The cardinals’ disappointment in me is tangible; how, exactly, did I so totally misunderstand the camerlengo? Father Patrick goes on, thoughtful, “Going to a game might even be a good thing if it tests your ability to master your emotions, rather than letting them master you.”

“A good thing?”

“A good thing,” he assures me.

I’m so relieved I blurt out, “Then do you want to come with me next time?” Cardinal Neeson struggles with a laugh and manages to swallow it; he knows better than to bust up in front of Cardinal Meloni.

Father Patrick’s eyes are once again the blue-green of sunny Monterey Bay as he says, “You really _do_ like me tons,” and there’s something in his voice that makes me think he hasn’t heard that a lot. Aww…

He adds, his expression diffident and adorable, “I enjoy your company as well, Miri. I’m glad you’re a part of my life. I laugh more when I’m with you than with anyone else I’ve known.”

I could do worse than be his comic relief. Actually, a jester’s hat would be kinda cute, the brightly colored motley and a jingle bell on each —

Cardinal Meloni, looking disgusted with me, reaches over Father Patrick’s shoulder and helps himself to brownies, handing one to Cardinal Neeson and one to Cardinal Bardem and taking a healthy bite out of his own. To my surprise he gives me the tiniest begrudging nod of approval. 

And I ask Father Patrick, “Are you sure it’s me and not that I make you brownies?”

“Ah, there is that, too…” He holds out the plate towards me then takes a piece for himself. When he doesn’t burst into tears at the taste I know it’s back to the drawing board, but he sighs contentedly anyway, always happy, it seems, with chocolate. 

We talk about brownies, music, the books he borrowed from me. I’m not surprised to find he’s a formalist at heart but even so he’s able to give credit where credit’s due when it comes to free verse. When we’ve drained the teapot he hands my books back and when I can’t figure out why they aren’t fitting in my backpack I finally pull out two “Star Trek” paperbacks that are taking up room.

“I’ll trade you,” I offer, holding them out. “You’ll probably need a fun read this weekend that won’t take too much thought.” He turns one of the novels over to read the blurb but I switch them quickly. “This one is the first one; that one is the sequel.”

“Ah.” He scans the blurb and then glances up at me. “I remember this episode — Captain Kirk went back in time to when people hunted witches, but Mr. Spock and Doctor McCoy went back even farther in time, to an ice age — ”

“And would have died if they hadn’t been rescued by a woman named Zarabeth. I’m her namesake. I mean, I’m Miri’s namesake, too. I mean, my full name’s Miri Zarabeth.” At his raised eyebrows I shrug. “My parents got better at naming kids as they went along.” 

“So Carolyn’s middle name is…?” 

“Amanda, as in Spock’s mother. And Leo’s is James.”

“After Captain Kirk.” I nod. “Mine is Michael, I believe after my grandfather.”

I sigh, jealous. “That’s so normal.”

“I never really thought about it, Miri. But it is, isn’t it?” There’s a glint in his eyes and I know he’s teasing me. “I look forward to reading about Spock and Zarabeth’s son.”

I start down the steps to the passageway, then turn around. “Have a good time — is that appropriate? Learn a lot? Rescue lots of people?”

He smiles at me. “Go to the baseball game, Miri, have fun, tell me about it when I get back,” he says. “And we’ll talk about seeing one together after I have a better idea of my schedule coming up.”

“Really?”

“I think seeing a baseball game with you would be — an interesting experience.”

I risk a peek at the cardinals. Cardinal Meloni thinks I need some serious prayer, but Cardinal Bardem is beaming with approval. And Cardinal Neeson tips me a wink. 

“It’ll be a blast,” I promise them all.

**_End Part 4_ **


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t seen him much since he got back from his weekend with the Aeronautica Militare, and when I have he’s seemed overly pensive and distracted, as if he’s got the weight of heaven and earth on his shoulders.

I’m steeling myself to go into my overly-friendly neighborhood café — I have until midnight New York time to finish writing an article for “Literature, Translated” and it’s not happening without some serious caffeine — when I catch sight of Father Patrick up the street ahead of me and I suddenly realize that if anything can put the baristas in their place, it’s the presence of a priest.

I haven’t seen him much since he got back from his weekend with the Aeronautica Militare, and when I have he’s seemed overly pensive and distracted, as if he’s got the weight of heaven and earth on his shoulders. I’m not his confidante but I have a good chance of distracting him from his worries so I hurry to catch up to him. “So they _do_ let you out of the Vatican!” 

He turns, startled, and I catch the full brunt of his preoccupied stare. Even looking adorable in his saturno he’s impossibly stern, his eyes Atlantic Ocean-gray just like when he’s celebrating mass or taking me to task for my confessions. Whatever he’s thinking about, it takes him a few moments to come back to the present. 

“They do, on occasion,” he concedes, managing a small smile. “How are you, Miri?”

“Fine, Father.” Then I say as cheerfully as I can, “Are you heading back? Do you want to grab a cup of coffee with me on the way?”

“That sounds fine.”

Sure enough, when he holds the café door open for me I hear the beginning of a drawn-out wolf whistle. But when I step aside for Father Patrick to enter and the whistle chokes off abruptly, I almost laugh out loud. 

Silvio and Mauro, awestruck, immediately abandon a middle-aged businessman, a young couple, and a grandmotherly woman waiting to be served and come out from behind the counter to greet Father Patrick, who shakes their hands before they do something awkward like try to kiss his ring. They fumble with their English until he speaks Italian and then they’re chatting happily with him and I am, amazingly, forgotten. 

I glance around the café and see Lorenza at her usual table. She’s an effortlessly beautiful woman with short dark hair and humorous dark eyes behind glasses that would be scholarly on anyone else but on her are just plain sexy. We’ve traded more than our share of commiserating looks whenever the baristas hover around one or the other of us, but right now behind Father Patrick’s back she’s dropping her jaw and shaking her hand at the wrist with her fingers spread, the universal sign for “Damn, he’s _hot_!” 

I grin in agreement and start to sit down, but then I realize that the abandoned customers are starting to cluster around Father Patrick and I quickly rescue him and bring him to Lorenza’s table, seating him between us to protect him from any unwanted attention. I manage to introduce the two of them before Mauro bustles over to actually take Father Patrick’s order instead of making him order at the counter, and he’s gracious enough to take our orders, too, respectfully calling me and Lorenza “signorina” instead of the usual “bambina.” I could get used to this.

Father Patrick asks Lorenza how she and I met and she closes her notebook and caps her pen, giving him all her attention as she explains that I introduced myself when I saw she was reading Charles Dickens. She smiles and leans towards him as she looks deep into his eyes and — wait! She’s flirting with him! With my priest! And he doesn’t seem to be taking it at all amiss. He gives her that million-watt smile that still makes me feel a little swoon-y, his voice dropping conspiratorially as he asks if she’s read _A Tale of Two Cities_ , his eyes locked with hers.

Mauro brings our drinks and a plate of biscotti, ostentatiously telling us it’s on the house, before I can go all green-eyed monster on poor Lorenza. What, she’s not supposed to find Father Patrick attractive? She can’t interact with him as an adult woman? She has three cardinals watching her every —? 

Oh, heck. I refuse to look around. If I don’t see them, then they aren’t there.

I resolutely take a sip of my macchiato, reminding myself of the point of all this. After all, it doesn’t really matter if it’s me or Lorenza distracting Father Patrick from his troubles, right? I let her have her intimate moment with the camerlengo and eat a cookie, waiting for a chance to join the conversation as a grown-up. 

Which doesn’t take long, actually, as Lorenza smiles at me and turns the talk to _Bleak House_ , the book we’d bonded over. So this isn’t a competition; she’s not trying to take him away from me. She’s being a friend. An insanely gorgeous friend who’s freely signaling her attraction to Father Patrick — but a friend nonetheless.

When Silvio and Mauro finally let poor Giulio out from the behind the counter and he promptly drags Father Patrick to the bakery case to pick out which pastries he’d like to take home, Lorenza mimes a faint. She immediately revives and grabs my hand. “We’re going to church tomorrow,” she tells me in a low voice. I nod agreement. “We’re going every single day of the — ”

“The other priests at St. Peter’s are a lot older than Father Patrick.”

“What a pity! I tell you, Miri, if more priests were like him I’d be in church all day and all night.” She gives me a significant look and I can’t help a giggle. “Oh! What a man!” she exclaims under her breath. 

Father Patrick returns with a white box tied with string and Silvio, who’s asking him when he’ll be celebrating mass next, and then Silvio turns to me and says solemnly, “Signorina, perhaps on that day you would like to go with me to hear Padre Patricio, yes?”

I level a look at him, impressed. “That has to be the best pick-up line I’ve heard from you since I moved here.” He manages to look both pious and smug. I gather Lorenza into my glance and she shrugs agreement; we were going to go anyway. “We’ll meet you there.” I suspect Mauro and Giulio will meet us there, too. 

And who’s got the “I’m Cupid, and I done _good_ ” look on his face? Yes. The camerlengo. 

***

Father Patrick obligingly hauls the box in front of my apartment door inside and peeks over my shoulder, curious, as I open it. “Perhaps you should apply for an import license,” he opines as I hand him the stack of movies at the very top. “ _Young and Dangerous_!” he exclaims, and starts to turn it over to read the bad English translation of the movie summary on the back but then he sees the movies underneath. “ _My Neighbor Totoro_?” 

“Totoro is a mythical forest creature that two little girls meet. It’s a Japanese animated movie,” I explain, not sure what Mom was thinking when she threw it into the box. 

Father Patrick looks a bit mystified at that. “I’ve seen this one,” indicating _Miracle on 34th Street._ “It’s the one where an old man thinks he’s Kris Kringle?”

“Right. Maureen O’Hara is the mom and Natalie Wood is her daughter. And _The Aristocats_ — ” 

He frowns slightly, trying to remember. “There are those Siamese cats…?”

“No, that’s _Lady and the Tramp_. In _The Aristocats_ Eva Gabor is Duchess, the mom cat, and she and her three kittens, Toulouse, Marie, and Berlioz — ”

“ — run into O’Malley the Alley Cat!” he says with sudden remembrance.

“Exactly!” So did Dad tell Mom that I was trying to help Father Patrick remember his childhood in Ireland? Did Mom think that if she sent movies Father Patrick watched as a kid, it might jog his other memories? Don’t they think I can do it on my own?

I unearth a box of Cap’n Crunch. Nope. Clearly, they’re under no illusions about how well I can bake. 

Ever since the French toast incident Carolyn’s been a big believer in food nostalgia and I’m sure she’s responsible for the cereal. Leo’s contribution is music — a cd with no play list, only labeled in his distinctive printing, “Camerlengo Mix.” 

“I would very much like to hear that, Miri.”

“So would I!” 

I put the Camerlengo Mix in the cd player and we try to figure out what we’re listening to. I recognize the talk box right away and tell Father Patrick, “It’s an American group called Bon Jovi,” which clearly means nothing to him but we continue to listen, uncertain what Bon Jovi, or Tommy on the dock and Gina in a diner, have to do with the camerlengo. And then I groan. “Leo! You did _not_ —” I catch Father Patrick’s glance and hold up a finger. “Wait for it, Father.” 

And then the chorus comes around, and to emphasize the title of the song that Leo thinks the camerlengo needs to hear I sing — well, the song isn’t so much sung as yelled in a stadium, so I do what needs to be done.

“ _OHHHH, we’re halfway there! Ohhhh-OH, livin’ on a prayer! Take my hand_ — ” I hold out my hand to him, which he’s too stunned to take. “— _we’ll make it I swear! Ohhhh-OH, livin’ on a prayer_!” 

His eyes are bright as the Pacific Ocean in sunlight as he looks at me, disbelieving, and bursts into laughter. I scrounge up a pen and a fish-shaped notepad to jot down titles and bands, and explain to Father Patrick about rock music at sporting events. 

The next song starts with an acoustic guitar. “Leo, you’re killing me,” I mutter as the mournful recorders kick in. Father Patrick looks a question at me. “‘Stairway to Heaven,’” I explain as I scribble on the notepad, and then I shoot him the look right back. “You’ve never heard Led Zeppelin before?” He shakes his head. “You’ve missed out on a lot, Father.” 

“What is the song about?”

I make a face. “You should have read some of the essays I got when I taught poetry and let my students write about the lyrics.”

He grins at me. “Terribly profound, are they?”

“They liked to think so. I’d sing you the chorus if it had one. It just kind of goes on and on.” 

We go back to unpacking the box and I mentally separate the food into what’s supposed to trigger Father Patrick’s childhood memories and what’s supposed to stave off my incipient homesickness. Animal-shaped cookies in a little box with a string handle — Father Patrick. Panko crumbs and tonkatsu sauce — me. Two pink-coconut-covered mounds of chocolate cake filled with cream — Father Patrick. Taco shells — ooh! Thanks, Dad!

“You’ve _got_ to come over for Taco Tuesday, Father!” At his blank look I amend, “It doesn’t have to be Tuesday, it can be any night, really, it’s just that Tuesdays tend to be a slow restaurant night so they sell tacos for a buck each to get people to eat out. But seriously, I’ll make tacos. Bring your dad.” 

He looks thoughtful. “If my father comes over, the Swiss Guard must accompany him, too.” 

Oh, for — did I just invite the Pope over for tacos? Yes. Yes, I did. “How many Swiss Guards?” I ask, hoping I sound unconcerned and wondering how many people can fit on my sofa if they’re relatively skinny. 

His grin is sudden, delighted. “You should see the expression on your face!” he teases, and I feel my cheeks go hot. Ha ha, Mr. Camerlengo. Good one. And then I find a nicely-wrapped package tied with ribbon about the size of a large shoebox with his name on it.

He turns it over and around as if it’s the wrapping that’s important. “But — I don’t understand,” he finally says. “Why —?” 

I shrug, trying not to die of curiosity. “They probably thought it was unfair that everything’s always for me and wanted you to have something to open, too.”

“It’s not as if it’s my birthday, or that they know me.”

“You’re my friend, Father. That’s plenty for them.” 

“It’s very generous of them, Miri.”

“Well, I’d open it first before I decided that.”

He grins at that, and then perversely keeps helping me unpack. Darn his self-restraint. 

It’s when we cart the food into the kitchen that another song (finally) starts and I say, “Remember when Jane Eyre ran away from Rochester, and Diana and Mary and St. John Rivers took her in, and Diana and Mary were really sweet but St. John was a scary religious zealot and kind of dangerous?”

Annie Lennox snarls, “ _Missionary Man, he’s got God on his side, he’s got the saints and apostles rising up from behind_ ” and Father Patrick asks, “This is a song about St. John Rivers?” 

“Well, no. The lead singer said it had something to do with dating a Hare Krishna. But when _I_ hear this song I think of St. John Rivers.”

“Ah.” He gives me a judicious “that makes sense — _not_ ” nod, and then visibly decides to change topics. “So…‘Living on a Prayer,’ ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ and — ” he consults the notepad, “‘Missionary Man.’ Songs with…religious words in the title?”

“And probably ‘Earth Angel’ is going to show up at some point, too.” 

But the next song is by Dusty Springfield and I have to hand it to my little brother, he’s digging deep in the Stannis CD collection. I dutifully sing the chorus. “ _The only one who could ever reach me was the son of a preacher man. The only boy who could ever teach me was the son of a preacher man_.”

Father Patrick looks up from putting the tea kettle on to boil. “The son of a preacher man?”

I decide to get my own back at him and sing, “ _You’re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you_.” He snorts a laugh and gives me an “okay, we’re even” look. He’s so adorable I can barely stand it. 

He wants to share his pastries from the café but I persuade him to save them for later and put out the snacks Carolyn sent; after all, he’s used to weird food when he’s with me, and since he didn’t react to seeing them, he’ll have to taste them to see if they have any effect. 

We make tea to “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey and move into the living room to — 

“Aretha!” I exclaim, and then explain, “Mom’s Aretha Franklin and the rest of us sing backup. Imagine Dad on my right and Carolyn and Leo on my left. _Prayer for yoooooou_!” As Aretha sings the verse I do a little step-and-snap, waiting to come in on “… _wear now! Prayer for you! Forever, and ever, you’ll stay in my heart and I will love you_!” 

And only after Father Patrick’s shaken his head at the Von Stannis Family Singers and taken a calming sip of tea does he finally unwrap his present. He unties the ribbon and makes sure to ease each piece of tape away from the paper so carefully I’m almost vibrating with impatience. As Jewel wonders who will save her soul Father Patrick opens the box and inside, nestled in dark blue tissue paper, is a stuffed seal. It was Dad’s idea, I know it was. And it’s perfect.

Father Patrick glances over at me. “It’s a harbor seal, Father. You can tell by the spotted coat and the short, concave snout. They’re true seals — no external ear flaps — and they — ”

He raises his eyebrows at me and I realize he wasn’t asking for scientific information. He probably never is, actually. “You mean, why a seal?” He nods, ever patient. “It’s from the Song of Solomon.” I take the pinniped and press it to his chest, reciting, “Set me as a seal upon your heart,” then move it, “as a seal upon your arm — ” He almost doubles over, he’s laughing so hard.

I dart into the bedroom and retrieve my own stuffed pinniped. “This is Paxton Elephant Seal. Paxton, meet Father Patrick McKenna.” I make Paxton wave a flipper at him. 

Father Patrick catches his breath and waves back. “Was there a character on ‘Star Trek’ named Paxton?”

“No. He just looks like a Paxton, don’t you think?”

He leans over and scrutinizes him. “I don’t believe I have an opinion,” he decides. Then he holds up his seal for my inspection. “What does my seal look like its name is?”

“Give it time, it’ll come to you.”

“Will it, now?” He sits back and looks down into his seal’s furry face. 

And I reflexively knock on air and sing along to the next song, “ _Knock knock knockin’ on heaven’s door_.” He spares me a questioning look as I continue pantomiming for the rest of the chorus. “Dad’s Bob Dylan. And no matter what we’re doing, homework or on the phone or washing dishes or whatever, we stop and knock.” 

It’s when Steve Winwood wants us to wake him up on Judgment Day, and we’re talking about Lorenza and the chauvinists at the café (with me encouraging Father Patrick to come up with a sermon that convinces the baristas of the error of their ways) that he starts absently stroking his seal’s fur, at first just petting its neck but as he falls into a rhythm I know is incredibly soothing he runs his hand from its head to its hindflippers again and again. 

Bingo. Oh, you wonderful spotted seal, you!

Father Patrick asks how I’m doing with the Bach mass and we talk about the two novels I loaned him (we’re in perfect agreement that the author, between writing the first novel and the second, had somehow gone from an enthusiastic but straightforward novice to someone who could handle complex characterizations and multiple storylines), George Michael tells us we gotta have faith-a-faith-a-faith, and it’s relaxed, easy, there’s no weight on his shoulders at all. 

Then “Like a Prayer” by Madonna comes on. Father Patrick asks, “Isn’t this —?”

I cut him a warning look as I add it to the list. “What?” 

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he assures me, looking so innocent he’s clearly not. I’m trying really hard to stare him down when that mischievous glint shows itself. “I just thought that perhaps you’re not Aretha because you’re Madonna.”

It really doesn’t pay to be annoyed at a priest. He’s just going to laugh at you anyway. I heave a put-upon sigh and then say through gritted teeth, because it’s true, “Yes. I am Madonna.” He grins, triumphant, and I roll my eyes and give in. Kind of. I turn Paxton to face me and sing to him, “ _When you call my name, it’s like a little prayer_ ,” refusing to treat Father Patrick to any more patented Stannis dance moves. Although I do make Paxton bop to the beat. 

Apparently, the camerlengo’s harbor seal is too shy to join in; it stays nestled against him, safe from the lunatic woman crooning pop songs, as he continues to smooth its fur and give me that grin that says he’s so amused by all of this he’s about fit to bust. It’s a relief when Madonna finally gives way to Cher, who believes in life after love.

Father Patrick helps himself to a handful of snacks — then freezes, mouth full, and frowns at me. I quickly try one and see nothing wrong. “Chicken-flavored crackers.” It’s only as I say it I realize that it’s probably a bizarre concept. “Goes really well with spray cheese in a can,” I admit.

He swallows, at least not afraid he’s been poisoned. “Americans like them?”

“The Stannises do; can’t speak for all Americans.” And there goes one more thing that doesn’t take Father Patrick back to his childhood. We’re batting 1.000. I wonder if he’ll even try the Cap’n Crunch now. 

He refills his teacup and takes a gulp, I’m guessing to cleanse his palate, and then as an afterthought he holds the cup to his seal’s muzzle and tilts it slightly for it to take a sip. Before I can go “awww!” at the cuteness of it all Father Patrick is giving me an incredulous look. “This is a popular song?”

I focus in on what’s been playing in the background, and wonder which member of my family would even admit to owning the Mr. Mister cd that Leo got the song from. “It _was_ a popular song. _Kyrie eleison, where I’m going will you follow! Kyrie eleison on the highway in the light_!” 

Father Patrick, now thoroughly resigned to the vagaries of American Top 40 songs, sighs and takes the ribbon from the gift box and ties it around the harbor seal’s neck. He considers the effect, straightens it a little. Then he says to it slowly, as if puzzled, “You look like…a Rosie.”

“Rosie Harbor Seal,” I pronounce with satisfaction. It’s a fine name. “Hi, Rosie! I’m Miri Stannis, and this is Paxton Elephant Seal.” Paxton again obediently waves a flipper. And Father Patrick makes Rosie wave hers. Awww! 

Suddenly he asks me, “Does everyone in your family have seals, then?”

I tilt my head back in an attempt to remember all their names. “Mom’s is…Gordon Monk Seal, Carolyn’s is Joy Fur Seal, Leo’s is…Samantha? Sabrina? Sarah Beth? …Harp Seal, and Dad has a sea lion, Salisbury, because he likes being an outlier.” 

“So it’s a family tradition.” I’ve seen that wondering look in his eyes before. It’s the same as when he realized that I did, indeed, like him tons. Except now he’s realizing a family half a world away feels the same way I do. “Thank you, for including me in your tradition. Thank you for Rosie.”

“You’re welcome, Father. We all know you’ll give her a good home.”

“That I will.”

The next song starts and I breathe, “Thank you, Leo!” I explain, “It’s my song, Father! Well, we call it ‘Miri’s Prayer.’” And because Father Patrick is family now, I stand and hold out my hands to him. “Whenever it plays we always dance to it.” 

He looks up at me with a surprisingly shy smile, leans over to place Rosie next to Paxton, and puts his hands in mine. Like Mom and Dad did with me and then I did with Carolyn and then Leo, I pull him towards me, lean away, twirl him around as I sing along with Danny Wilson. 

“ _So when you find somebody to keep, think of me and celebrate, I made such a big mistake when I was Miri’s prayer_.” When the chorus comes around again he’s not only dancing with more assurance, he’s singing along, too. Quick study, that camerlengo.

“ _What I wouldn’t give to be when I was Miri’s prayer_.” As the song ends I twirl Father Patrick a final time and he winds up with his back to me and wrapped in my arms. I tell myself in no uncertain terms that he’s nothing but my hunky older brother — he’s standing between my dad and me as we back up my mom singing “Chain of Fools.” Right there. See him?

That’s when he turns back around and pulls me into a warm hug, saying softly into my ear, “Thank you, Miri.”

Out of all the hundred million times I’ve fantasized about being held by Father Patrick, not once did my throat tighten and not once did I have to blink back sudden tears. Not once was I the sudden emotional wreck I am now. I swallow hard and reply as lightly as I can, “You’re welcome, Patrick Michael Stannis McKenna.”

I feel his huff of laughter against my hair. “No ‘Star Trek’ name for me? ‘Spock’ isn’t taken yet.”

“Neither is ‘Uhura,’” I remind him. 

“That’s true. Let me think on it.”

“Miri’s Prayer” is the last song on the Camerlengo Mix and the silence is surprisingly comfortable as we let go of each other and he gets ready to leave. He puts on his saturno and settles Rosie carefully into the crook of his arm and I slip the cd and the movies between the top of the bakery box and the string tied around it so he can carry the box with his other hand. I lightly stroke Rosie’s head in goodbye. 

Before Father Patrick heads downstairs he smiles at me and asks, “What do harbor seals eat?”

“Well, Paxton is incredibly partial to strange salty snacks, so I’m guessing Rosie likes chocolate.” 

He sighs in relief. “I think I can handle that.” He winks at me — _he winks at me_! — and heads home.

I perch Paxton where he can stare me down and I carefully and deliberately straighten my desk – laptop here, pens and notebooks there, books there, there, and there – so I can start editing down my article. I’m skittery, with more than just caffeine and sugar and salt coursing through my system. 

Something happened today, something shifted. I just wanted to help him, wanted to take his mind off his troubles, whatever they are — he’s probably just worried about a parishioner, it’s not as if his brain was stolen by aliens like Spock’s was or he’d be acting more like a zombie and not looking so troubled but maybe he’s Bette Davis in _Dark Victory_ with a brain tumor that’ll kill him within the year and — nah, he told me flat-out he wasn’t Audrey Hepburn so he’s probably not Bette Davis either and in any case he probably just heard something in the confessional because if a quarter or even one-eighth of the parishioners say whatever comes into their heads when they’re in a confessional like I do I can see a priest being pretty disturbed by it all especially if he found out there was like a deep-cover mole at the Vatican and —

Paxton looks at me mournfully. What exactly was I supposed to be doing again? Right. I sit down at my desk. As I sift through the hardcopy pages I can feel the ghost of Father Patrick’s arms around me. And it’s not sexual in the least. 

Because Camerlengo Patrick McKenna became an honorary Stannis today. And if that’s what’ll get him through whatever’s bothering him, that’s what I’m going to be. The sister who reminds him he’s liked tons. Who makes him feel like he belongs. 

**_FIN_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leo's Camerlengo Mix  
> “Living on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi on the album _Cross Road_  
>  “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin on the album _Led Zeppelin IV_  
>  “Missionary Man” by the Eurythmics on the album _Greatest Hits_  
>  “Son of a Preacher Man” by Dusty Springfield on the album _Ultimate Collection: Dusty Springfield_  
>  “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey on the album _Journey’s Greatest Hits_  
>  “I Say a Little Prayer” by Aretha Franklin on the album _Greatest Hits_  
>  “Who Will Save Your Soul” by Jewel on the album _Atlantic Records: 50 Years_  
>  “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” by Bob Dylan on the album _Biograph_  
>  “Wake Me Up on Judgment Day” by Steve Winwood on the album _Back in the High Life/Chronicles_  
>  “Faith” by George Michael on the album _“Faith_  
>  “Like a Prayer” by Madonna on the album _Like a Prayer_  
>  “Believe” by Cher on the album _Women & Songs_  
> “Kyrie” by Mr. Mister on the album _Billboard Top Hits — 1986_  
>  “Mary’s Prayer” by Danny Wilson on the album _Meet Danny Wilson_


End file.
